Blood Kills Read online

  “How will that affect the Arts Galleria?” I asked. “Surely you’re not going to close it down. The other shop owners are innocent of any wrongdoing, after all.”

  “Nothing as drastic as that,” Wukowski said. “The Galleria can stay open for business for now, but all funds that would accrue to Swanson will go into a holding account until a decision is reached. And Metal Works can’t reopen.”

  Debby turned to me. “Do you think I need to tell the others right away?”

  “I’d wait,” I told her. “If the assumptions are not proven, then it’s a non-issue.”

  Leaning across the table, Wukowski intoned in a flat voice, “Now that you know the kind of man Swanson was, Angie, I’d like you to back off this matter. Will you do that?”

  “I… I need time to consider it, Wukowski. But I won’t take any action without letting you know.”

  “Fair enough.” He rose and said, “Ms. Hill, time to head back to your temporary home.”

  Debby gathered her purse and handed the legal materials to me. “Could you have Mick’s lawyer look these over?”

  Great, I thought, another blow to Debby’s fragile peace of mind. “I’m afraid Rebecca Franken doesn’t want to be involved further in the case. After the trauma of the attack, she’s contemplating retirement.” As Debby’s mouth formed an O of distress, I hurried on. “But don’t worry. I know an extremely competent criminal attorney who owes me a favor. I’ll call to set up an appointment.”

  “Bart Matthews?” Wukowski asked. When I nodded, he murmured under his breath, “Criminal attorney in more ways than one.” Then he stepped to my side, bent, and placed a kiss on my cheek. “I have to bow out of the invitation for a meal this Sunday. Too much on my plate at work. I’ll call Pat and reschedule.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and gave me an earnest, almost pleading look. “I know the news about Mick and downgrading the case probably has you fuming, moja droga, but don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “If that was a possibility,” I said with a tiny smile, “it would’ve happened years ago.”

  Chapter 38

  The human animal differs from the lesser primates in his passion for lists.

  H. Allen Smith

  Rain pelted the windows of my condo on Tuesday, waking me from early-morning dreams. As I waited for my coffee maker to finish brewing, I considered the day’s tasks. Bart Matthews’ role as a “Mafia mouthpiece”—the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel’s words, not mine, and they paid dearly for them—reflected the fact that he exclusively handled Family clients. Given that he’d accommodated me before, I felt confident that he’d help us as a stopgap measure.

  WTMJ’s morning news show labeled the weather “inclement,” with a high in the low sixties. More like a mini-hurricane, I thought.

  I showered, moisturized, and styled my hair, then reached into the underwear drawer. Carefully considering the contents, I realized with a start that my former fixation with sexy bra-and-panty sets had returned with a vengeance. Now that the long-anticipated reunion with Wukowski loomed, our game of “what’s under those classy clothes” beckoned. No time like the present, I decided, and selected a blush-pink silk charmeuse set to spice up the lightweight tailored tweed trousers and cowl-neck teal sweater. Sensible flats would have to be the order of the day, given the inevitable pools of water I’d be traversing.

  It was too early to phone Bart’s office, so I retrieved the aforementioned paper from the outside hallway and settled down to read what passed for news these days. Malfeasance abounded, from politicians, police, and what seemed like every other organization in the city, county, and state—not to mention the country. I turned to the Green Sheet, located the daily crossword, and set to work. Admittedly, it was fairly easy, but it occupied my mind until nine a.m., when Bart would be at work.

  ***

  “Law Offices of Bartholomew Matthews,” said a youthful voice. “Melinda Matthews speaking. How may I help you?”

  The contrast between this greeting and the ill-tempered don’t-bother-me tone of Bart’s former administrative assistant was striking. I’d heard that Bart hired his niece after Bertha Conti’s abrupt departure in disgrace. Now if Melinda is only half as efficient as her predecessor, she’ll be perfect, I thought.

  “Ms. Matthews, this is Angelina Bonaparte. I’m a private investigator. Bart and I have worked together in the past.” I felt the need to introduce myself since my last contact with Bart’s office was during the Wagner case that resulted in Bertha’s dismissal. Well before Melinda’s time.

  “Please call me Melinda, Ms. Bonaparte. And I know who you are. My uncle will be very happy to speak to you. He’s always telling me about your joint exploits.”

  “I see.” I let a moment of silence fall.

  “Oh, please don’t worry that anything will ever be spoken outside this office. I know all about confidentiality. I used to work for a health clinic. But this is much nicer. No one’s dying here.”

  You may think so, I mused, but given Bart’s clients, I’ll bet money that his office has seen its share of violence. “I wonder if Bart has an opening in his schedule today. I’ve been working with a woman who recently inherited a lot of money from a work associate after he was murdered. Now the police are freezing his assets, claiming they came from illegal gang activities. Not a Family matter,” I hastened to assure her. “Bratva. Russian organized crime.”

  “Murdered? And Russians? Oh my! Let me check. And please don’t tell him I called him ‘uncle.’ He wants me to keep things on a professional level, but it can be hard to remember. One moment.”

  She’s certainly more pleasant than Bertha, I thought during the wait, but I doubt she’s as organized.

  “Angie,” came Bart’s smoke-ravaged voice, “I was about to call you. I need to see you and”—papers rustled before he spoke again—“Ms. Deborah Hill. As soon as you can arrange it. And before you ask, no, I can’t tell you more on the phone.”

  What’s this about? I wondered, recalling that I’d made no mention of Debby when I texted him after finding Mick’s body. He shouldn’t even know her name. But it would do no good to question him now. He would follow his own agenda. “I’ll get in touch with Debby. The police think that she can be released from their safe house in a day or so, now that they’ve identified Mick as the villain of the piece.”

  “I’ll be in court today and tomorrow. Let me send you back to Melinda to set it up for Thursday.”

  “I appreciate it, Bart. The case of Debby Hill’s inheritance is more complex than I originally thought.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is. But let’s leave that for our meeting. Tell me, is the MPD embargo still in effect?”

  “Actually, they lifted it a few days early due to department personnel shortages.”

  “And you and Detective Wukowski are…?” He let the question hang.

  “We’re quasi together, but he doesn’t want me in the middle of this homicide investigation. For the sake of appearances, among other things. However, I see no reason not to help Debby, who happens to be a friend of my daughter and a fabric artist whose shop I’ve patronized.”

  “Well, I can only wish you the best on the personal front.”

  Knowing Bart’s dislike of change, I decided to put in a good word for Melinda. “Your new secretary has a good phone presence. Professional and friendly.”

  “She’s helpful,” he acknowledged, “and the clients love her. Knows how to keep quiet about office business. But she takes twice as long as Bertha to get things done.”

  Bart loved lists, so I presented a defense of Melinda with one. “First, she hasn’t worked for you for thirty years,” I told him. “Second, she probably has a life outside the practice, unlike Bertha. Third, Bertha’s methods were obsolete before Melinda was born, from the youthful sound of her voice. Maybe you should consider modernizing.”

  “I have a computer and just upgraded to a secure smartphone, with help from Spider. How much more modern can I get?” he grumped.<
br />
  “Maybe load your files and contacts on that fancy computer. Little things like that can make time management much simpler, Bart. It’s the difference between running a Google search or using a card catalog.” My former librarian’s mind did miss the challenge of finding information among the drawers of index cards, but online search engines certainly sped up the process of locating data.

  “That’s what Melinda tells me,” he responded. “I’ll think about it, but I have a client waiting. I’ll transfer you to set up the appointment.”

  “Okay. And Bart, Debby is very concerned about the future of the Arts Galleria. She’s retained me as her agent to help her navigate the muddy waters.”

  “More like bloody waters,” he rasped.

  “Sadly true. But if it comes to it, would you consider representing her in any possible criminal dealings? I know it’s outside the scope of your usual clientele, but I’d take it as a personal favor.” I waited, well aware that Bart was in my debt for uncovering a leak in his legal office that led to a man’s murder.

  “If it does indeed come to that, I will be at your service, Angelina.”

  The use of my full first name made it clear that we had veered into the area of an unspoken contract. “Your support is most appreciated, as always. Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” he assured me in a tone a shade lower than normal. “Between friends, there is no debt and therefore no need for thanks.”

  So Bart’s representation would clear the books between us. I considered it a very fair exchange.

  Chapter 39

  Opportunity makes a thief.

  Sir Francis Bacon

  Debby called me early on Wednesday morning. “Angie, the police think it’s okay for me to go home and resume my normal activities. I’m so relieved.”

  “That is good news,” I told her. “Do you and Bleki need a ride?”

  “No, but thank you. Detective Wukowski will take us. He wants a chance to look over the house, just to be on the safe side. That’s so considerate of him, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, glad of his innate sense of wariness. When the call ended, I would notify Spider to deploy his security detail. “I hope you’re not going into the shop this week.”

  “Well…”

  “I know you want to get caught up on things, Debby, but I feel uneasy about your being there after the other owners close up and leave. And knowing you probably have a backlog of tasks to take care of, it will be tempting to stay late. At least that’s what I do when I’ve been away for a while.”

  With a sigh, she said, “You’re right. After Detective Wukowski leaves, I’ll get a nice salad from Culver’s and hunker down at home with Bleki. Angie, you cannot believe the amount of junk food I ate at the safe house. How do those officers manage to fit into their uniforms?”

  I laughed. “I think they just trade up a size.” But not Wukowski, I thought. He’s… just right.

  “That’s not happening,” Debby protested. “It’s salads, baked chicken, and veggies for me for at least a week. And an extra thirty minutes walking Bleki before I head to the shop.”

  “We have an appointment tomorrow with the attorney I mentioned. Why not stay home until then? He can advise you on next steps.”

  She agreed and hung up. I sent the text to Spider, then contemplated the rest of my day and evening. I’d skipped my usual mail pickup on Saturday. Bobbie was out doing… Bobbie things. I didn’t keep track of his time. After all, he was an associate partner now and not an hourly employee.

  I decided to leave early, stop at the service center for mail and packages—I’d been notified that my quarterly delivery of facial cleansing oil awaited me—and maybe mimic Debby and pick up a tabbouleh salad with a lamb kabob at Abu’s Jerusalem of the Gold restaurant for later.

  After supper, I would phone Wukowski. We hadn’t talked since the uncomfortable meeting at Homicide, and our enforced separation would officially end in seven more days. We might be on opposite sides regarding Mick Swanson, but I would not let that postpone our reunion. A very special negligee hung in my closet, waiting for his attentions.

  ***

  Loaded down with a carrier bag of food, the expected box and assorted letters, I headed for the elevator in the parking garage of my condo. The bell dinged and my neighbor Sally stepped out, clutching her handbag as if it contained the Koh-i-Noor diamond, with a whistle at the ready in the other hand.

  “What in the world has you so agitated?” I asked.

  “Oh, Angie, haven’t you heard? Someone broke into the mailboxes early this morning. The police are still in the building, questioning residents.”

  “But… what about the security system? And the cameras?”

  “All deactivated, according to the officer who came to my door. Funny, though, nobody cut the power. My clocks weren’t flashing this morning.”

  “Nor mine,” I agreed. “I don’t use the building boxes, you know,” I said, lifting my package and the hold-all lettered with SECURE MAIL SERVICES OF MILWAUKEE on the side.

  “After this, I’m switching too. You recommend them?”

  “Absolutely. They’ve never let me down.”

  “Good to know.” She hesitated and then asked, “Would you mind watching until I get to my van? I need to pick Joseph up from therapy.”

  “Of course not.” I set my packages down to free my hands and let her see the 9mm in its purse holster. “I’m licensed. If you want me to come down when you return, just call and I’ll wait here for you.” Her son Joseph used a wheelchair as a result of MS, making them particularly vulnerable to a thief or mugger.

  Her eyes wide, she whispered, “Oh my!” and scuttled to the disabled parking spots along the far wall.

  Upstairs, after looking through my mail and shredding what most people would simply toss, I decided to take the now-empty cosmetics box to the recycling area in the basement… with a side jaunt to the electrical box that lived in the same general vicinity of the dumpster.

  No signs of tampering. Glancing up, I noted that the security camera that covered this area swiveled to follow my movements. Definitely in service. I put the lack of surveillance during the mailbox break-ins down to a glitch. Surely petty thieves wouldn’t have the know-how to interrupt the building’s security system.

  Back inside the condo, I washed up and prepared a cup of ginger tea for an afternoon boost without the jitters that caffeine could bring on. The sense of wellness that only comes from a place of belonging soothed me as I sat in my favorite wing chair and lifted my feet onto the small upholstered footstool. This was not my papa’s leather monstrosity, mind you, but a modern version, whose back curved in like a young woman’s waistline before flaring out again to meet the seat. From the glass wall of the living room, Lake Michigan mirrored my contentment, its dark aqua water barely disturbed by tiny whitecaps. I sipped my tea and sighed in pleasure, savoring these minutes of quiet renewal.

  Later, after an excellent Middle Eastern meal, I phoned Wukowski.

  “Angie,” he said, “am I in the doghouse over Swanson?”

  His pleasantly low baritone rumbled smoothly up my spine. “No, caro. I decided—with a gentle push from my other guys—to woman up and gracefully accept the reality.”

  “Other guys? How many other guys do you have on the string?”

  With a laugh, I said, “Bobbie, Spider, Bram, sometimes Mad Man Malone and Tiny Tim. Oh, and Joey, but he’s too young to alarm you.”

  “Humph. Okay, since we’re being so aboveboard, let me tell you about the other women in my life.”

  “Go on.” I waited, grinning.

  “Let’s see. There’s Mama, your Aunt Terry, Iggy’s wife Marianne. Oh, and Angela. But like Joey, she’s a nonstarter.”

  “So we’re still exclusive,” I said, needing to hear him affirm it.

  “Always, moja droga.”

  “Seven more days until the MPD embargo is officially lifted,” I said, my voice suddenly husky.

>   “Yeah, I’ve got it circled on my calendar,” he assured me. “My counting skills aren’t as impressive as yours. And it was too damn depressing at first, keeping track of the time we were apart.”

  “Wait,” I said, “it’s on your calendar? Your work calendar?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So the whole homicide bullpen knows?”

  “Angie, they’re counting down too. I’ve, uh, apparently been hard to get along with for the past, what, nine hundred days or so. Somebody left an anonymous note on my blotter. ‘You can’t be an angry young man after the age of fifty. So stop acting like a grumpy old fart.’”

  I choked back a laugh. “Oh, caro, we have so much time to make up for. Shall we plan for next Monday or just let events unfold?” I gave the phrase a sultry emphasis.

  “Angie, I’m a little, uh, tied up here. But I vote for the latter. Monday night. Even if they find the mayor’s dead body on the steps of city hall.”

  The call ended and I relaxed back in my chair, laughing out loud at the absurdity of middle-aged lovers.

  Chapter 40

  No amount of anxiety can change the future.

  Gautama Buddha

  I called Debby on Thursday morning to arrange to pick her up for our meeting with Bart.

  She answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

  The tone of that one word told me she was stressed. “It’s Angie, Debby. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. It’s just… well, I’m feeling overwhelmed. I went into the office this morning after all. Roy took in a huge shipment for me while I was at the safe house. Replacement yarn for what got damaged by the broken window. And my quarterly IRS payment is due. To top it off, Mick got a letter from the city of Wales. He hasn’t paid his property taxes, so they’re after him, uh, I mean me.” She took in a ragged breath. “I want to run away and hide. Do you think Wukowski will let me rent the safe house for a month or so?”

  I considered postponing the meeting with Bart, but his references to Mick made me reluctant to take that step. Debby needed help though, and I could offer that. “I’m pretty sure that only victims and potential informers can take up residence there, Debby. But I have an idea.”